He’s pissed. “Are you crazy? Look where you’re going! I almost hit you! I almost wiped out!”
Vivian stumbles back onto the sidewalk, shaken. Her mouth feels as dry as a cotton ball. “Sorry,” she manages to mumble.
When she pokes her head back up, the blue-haired girl is climbing into a car, like one of those black Uber SUVs. Peter is nowhere to be found.
Did he see Vivian?
Is he already in the car, waiting for this girl?
Did the two of them just check out of the hotel?
Wasthat even Peter?
The Uber speeds off. Vivian is left staring at the place they just were. She’s utterly confused. She gingerly touches her head, as if she’s bonked it. Because that’s how she feels. Like she’s massively concussed.
Taylor
As Taylor walks up the Knox’s back alleyway early Friday morning, she finds a truck and construction dumpster parked outside. Two men are unloading serious-looking equipment from the truck: sledgehammers, an electric drill, a saw, thick gloves, eye protection. Rose stands watching from the back door, her hands shading her face.
“We’re doing a little renovation project,” Rose shares, when Taylor approaches. Rose is wearing a black hoodie that reads, “The Butler Did It.”
“I like your sweatshirt,” Taylor says. She herself is wearing a thrift-store score: a Veronica Beard shirt that retails for $248 but that she got for $24, likely because of the hole at the bottom, which is easily hidden if the shirt is worn tucked in. As an added decoration, she sewed a gold peony patch she created onto the lapel area. The shirt’s former owner had worn Chanel N°5, and for this reason, she hasn’t washed it.
Rose gives one of those quick, begrudging smiles Taylor has come to expect. “They’ll be in the basement, so it shouldn’t interfere with your work.”
“I didn’t know there was a basement.”
This isn’t totally true; Taylor knows how the basement—or at least a portion of it—connects the Knox to the adjacent building, where Jerry and Eduardo live.
Rose presses her lips together. “I received word late last night about this,” she finally adds. Is she pleased or displeased about this last-minute notice? It’s hard to tell.
The men amble up, their hands full of tools, and Rose leads them down the corridor.
Taylor waits a few seconds so it doesn’t appear like she’s following, and then she passes through the same corridor.
Things look different. Doors usually open are closed. The door to the kitchen. The two French doors to the dining room. The parlor entrance—which doesn’t contain a door—has a solid blue tarp hanging down from its frame. All artwork on the common walls has been taken down, its hooks and D-rings and cleats now exposed. Vases and the usual decor on the tables are gone. For a person curious about the Knox, there really is nothing to see. Well, except for that carousel horse, still down the hall, which didn’t make the cut.
The only open door is the small one, under the staircase, through which the men and Rose disappear. Taylor’s never been down there. Nor does she have any desire to; the thought alone of descending into a dark, dank stairwell makes her feel instantly suffocated. No; she’ll stay on this level, thank you very much. But she can listen in on their conversation. She stands at the foot of the stairs, craning her neck. China the cat rubs against her leg with a small meow, and Taylor picks her up.
“The original blueprints are here,” Rose says. “Look. See here? You can see where this room was, and where the door was. This is what we need opened.”
“Right, yeah, I can see where the door was. We can open this up, no problem.”
“You hear something interesting there?” Liam’s voice says from behind, and Taylor jumps. China painfully digs into Taylor’s arms before leaping out, and Taylor has to stifle her cry.
“Sheeit!” Taylor hisses. Then she glances down the stairs, terrified Rose will realize she’s been eavesdropping. But there is no pause in conversation, thank goodness.
Liam leans casually against the opposite wall, sipping a coffee. “That’s an interesting good morning greeting.”
“What’s going on in the basement?” she asks in a whisper, ignoring his comment. She moves away from the door.
“There’s an old room that’s been sealed for years. Like, over a hundred years. Oliver wants it opened.”
“Who’s Oliver? And what’s in the room?”
Oliver, she recalls, is the name of the person for whom she had to fetch a package.
“You really don’t know who Oliver is?”
